


Banoffee Pie

by Fatlockandfeeding



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fatlock, Gen, Pre-Slash, Weight Gain, fat appreciation, fat character(s), fat!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2250012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fatlockandfeeding/pseuds/Fatlockandfeeding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic request: Sherlock gets addicted to Banofee pie and as all addictions go it has its consequences. Like getting very fat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Banoffee Pie

"Sherlock, you want some? Mrs. Hudson just brought it up."  
  
Sherlock glanced over at the kitchen table, and took in the sight of John sitting with a small bowl of some gooey, creamy looking substance, and wrinkled his nose. “What is it?”

"Banoffee pie, it’s amazing…I think she made the toffee from scratch." John took another bite and moaned. 

Sherlock peered into the bowl and raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never had it. It looks…sticky.” He wrinkled his nose again.

John’s mouth fell open and he spluttered. “You’ve  _never_  had Banoffee pie?  _Never_? Oh no!” He scooped up a forkful of pie and held it out. “You have to try it, Sherlock. Just one bite.”

Sherlock huffed and leaned forwards, taking a bite of the gooey dessert.

Flavour exploded on his tongue and Sherlock’s eyes widened. The sweet, rich dulce de leche perfectly complimented the perfectly ripe bananas, the whipped cream and crumbly, buttery crust were a divine accompaniment, and all the sweetness of the pie, which could have easily been cloying, was set off by the delicious shaved flakes of rich, dark chocolate sprinkled on top. Fantastic.  _Orgasmic_ , even. He pulled back in utter shock and looked at John, who was grinning. 

"Good, right?" Th doctor almost looked smug. 

Sherlock nodded wordlessly and then got a fork, sitting down at the table and digging directly into a pie, not even bothering to get a plate. 

"Oi!" John said, but Sherlock ignored him and continued to eat, pausing only to moan as he consumed more and more of the sumptuous pie.

Half an hour later it was gone, and John had only managed to snag one more slice. Sherlock leaned back in his chair and groaned, rubbing it his swollen, distended tummy. 

John chuckled as he watched and got up to wash the plate. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat that much in one sitting.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything that delicious…but don’t tell Mrs. Hudson that, it’ll only go to her head.”

Sherlock ended up telling Mrs. Hudson the next day anyway, and she was so happy she made him another, making him promise to share with John. 

Sherlock did not. In fact in twenty minutes he had consumed the entire pie, practically falling apart with pleasure as he undid his trouser button halfway through, giving his swelling belly more room. 

This could become a problem, he thought for a moment, but then he pushed that thought back, and ran his finger around the pie dish, scooping up the last of the sticky residue and bringing it to his lips.

After the first three pies, Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t make him anymore, some nonsense about him ‘taking advantage, young man,’ and so she sent him away, and Sherlock decided to conduct an experiment…he would figure out how to make a Banoffee pie even better than Mrs. Hudson’s. 

Over the next few weeks John watched in amusement as Sherlock cooked and cooked, declaring each pie ‘not good enough,’ although he finished each one he made, just in case. He was eating at least three pies a day, and his stomach was so stuffed that he switched from wearing trousers to lounging in pyjama bottoms, only putting on real clothes if a good case came up. Even then, when he deduced and prowled and solved cases, in the back of his mind he was weighing the merits of making toffee from brown sugar and cream vs. boiling a can of condensed milk. He’d even been reduced to purchasing pre-made toffee spread, but to no avail. 

One day, when a particularly interesting case came in, Sherlock was pulling his trousers over his thighs and frowned at how tight they felt. He managed to get them up, however, and then went to button them. 

They wouldn’t meet. No matter how much he sucked in his belly he couldn’t make the button meet the hole. He let out a growl of frustration and pulled on one of his rarely worn knitted jumpers, which fell long enough to cover the gap and hide the pooch of fat hanging out of his trousers. It made sense, he thought vaguely, because his stomach was in a state of near-permanent distention with how often he was eating now. He’d give a day off pie making tomorrow, and he’d be back to normal. 

But he couldn’t let it go. He’d intended to, but he spent the next day making and eating more pie. John looked at him worriedly and made him eat two portions of vegetables too, but Sherlock had made particularly good pies that day, and so it was no hardship. Even though he did argue that the pie had fruit, and so really the vegetables weren’t necessary. John didn’t seem to agree. Sherlock only shrugged, and ate another bite of pie. 

Two months later, Sherlock was huffing as he climbed the stairs of 221b, his once baggy jumper riding up slightly over his white, jiggling belly. His arse jiggled too beneath the grey tracksuit bottoms he’d purchased, having finally decided that his stomach was simply too swollen to fit into his trousers anymore. When he was done with the Banoffee Pie Experiment, he’d start wearing them again.   
  
"Doubt that," came John’s from behind him, and Sherlock started when he realised he’d been speaking out loud. 

"What do you mean?" he huffed again as they made it to the top of the stairs, and he opened the door and then gratefully collapsed onto the couch, oblivious to the way that it groaned beneath him.   
  
"Well," John called from the kitchen, "you’re certainly not going to fit back into your old trousers…you’ve gotten too fat." 

Sherlock spluttered and looked affronted. “I have not gotten  _fat_. My stomach’s just swollen!”  
  
John laughed as he came back into the living room, and walked over to Sherlock, reaching down to jiggle his generous gut. “This isn’t swelling Sherlock.” He poked him in his soft pectoral. “And neither is this,” he pinched his arm, “or this,” and then the bastard actually  _tickled_  Sherlock’s double-chin, “or this. You’re not swollen, Sherlock. You’re fat.” 

Sherlock blinked, and then looked down at himself. He looked at the way his heavy belly sat in his lap, and he tentatively spread his legs and gulped a bit when his gut fell down between them. He looked up at John, and then down at his belly again. “I…I should probably stop the Banoffee pie experiment, shouldn’t I?” 

John sighed and smiled, sitting down next to his friend. “Honestly? You need to start eating balanced food again, but if you love Banoffee pie, Sherlock, then keep eating Banoffee pie.”

"But," Sherlock grabbed his belly with both hands and squeezed miserably, "I’m  _fat_.”

John laughed. “And you’re still Sherlock Holmes, intelligent, arsehole, and utterly gorgeous. You’re fine…so what do you say to some soup for dinner, and a slice of Banoffee pie for pudding?”  
  
Sherlock thought for a few moments, and then met John’s smile with his own.

"Two slices."


End file.
